


Aubergine, Vibranium, Spider Silk

by WaterMe



Series: Frisky Beans Extended Universe [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1, Breathplay, Bucky Barnes’ Dick: Relationship Therapist, Domestic Fluff, Fisted by the Fist of Hydra, Fisting, M/M, Orgasm Control, Peter's not a kitten anymore, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesomes, biceps 4 biceps 4 Peter, but he still wants to stick his head in Clint's mouth, but there’s always room for growth, excuse me sir there are feelings in my smut, experienced slut Peter Parker, honestly not as many biceps as I thought there would be, i want that spider-twink Obliterated, it’s okay we know they’re there, kind of, polyamory lack-of-negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe
Summary: Five times Peter Parker wanted to say 'I Love You,' and one time Clint Barton totally fucked up saying it back.(Clint gets a visit from an old friend. Thingsreallyescalate. A Frisky Business follow-up that can be read as a one shot.)(fill for Marvel Polyship Bingo: Creative Dildos)
Relationships: Clint Barton/Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton (past), James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Peter Parker
Series: Frisky Beans Extended Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924537
Comments: 31
Kudos: 133
Collections: Marvel Polyship Bingo 2020, i want that spider-twink Obliterated





	Aubergine, Vibranium, Spider Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnGoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/gifts).



> _Hey, Water, is this your second fic of the night because Marvel Polyship Bingo ends tonight at midnight, Hawaii time, and you had a few so-close-you-could-taste-it drafts?_  
>  Why yes, gentle reader, yes it is.
> 
> Anyway, way back in June I read an issue of _Hawkeye_ at 2am ("Cherry," for those who might see where this is going...), and then this story came to me in a dream. And I knew it was a sequel of sorts to "Frisky Business," which means I have been _waiting to post it ever since._
> 
> All this to say, this is a TOTALLY ON TIME birthday present for [An Goose.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose) Happy birthday, boo. I wish you all the biceps in the world 😘
> 
> Thanks to [Niniva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niniva/pseuds/Niniva) for the beta! If you haven't read 'Deadpool's Bootcamp for Negligent Spiders,' and you like my weird shit... well I just don't know what you're waiting for.

* * *

The first time he tells Clint he loves him, Peter is impaled wrist deep on the Winter Soldier’s metal hand. 

Clint doesn’t say it back. Instead, he freezes and rasps a kind of _“hahhhhhhh,_ ” like air escaping a balloon.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

  
  


Wait.

Let’s back up a little.

  
  


The first time Peter _wants_ to tell Clint he loves him, they’ve just moved Peter’s dumb crap into Clint’s apartment. They have every intention of unpacking right away, of getting Peter integrated into their cozy little home. Clint hasn’t offered to intermingle their books (some things should be saved for marriage), but he did throw together a new bookshelf out of some cinderblocks and old planks, the craggy concrete spray-painted purple and adorned with a cute little collage of newspaper dogs. 

Peter loves it. Peter loves… well. 

They have every intention of unpacking right away.

So, of course, they end up fucking on the floor.

Peter’s not even sure who starts it. All he knows is that he’s on his belly with his jeans halfway down the thighs, and Clint is straddling him and pushing in, eased only by elbow grease and this morning’s lube, and Peter is clawing at the wood because, _shit,_ Clint is _big,_ but Peter is a fucking champ and — more importantly — not a quitter.

Clint smacks him on the thigh. “Don’t scratch up my floor, kitten. I just refinished ’em.” He’s breathless, swearing, and Peter would be smug if he wasn’t wheezing like Clint’s stupidly gigantic dick had just punctured a lung.

And then he pulls Peter’s hips up, squeezes Peter’s thighs tight between his own, and Peter ends up coming in hot stripes all over Clint’s precious reclaimed hardwood.

They’re boneless on the floor. “Guhhh,” says Clint, and Peter has to agree.

A tentative knock draws their attention to the door, and it swings a little more open because… the door… was cracked… this entire time.

Oops.

Oh well. Peter was always going to blow his reputation with the neighbors sooner rather than later.

Clint swears and heaves himself up, tucking back into his pants. He puts his body between Peter and the open door, which is chivalrous of him and also _necessary,_ because Peter’s dick is still out and he ain’t moving any time soon.

“Thought you got a kitten?” asks the neighbor.

Clint rubs the back of his neck and shrugs sheepishly. “Yeah, kitten situation, uh, evolved. Got myself a boyfriend instead.”

And then he freezes, like a cat caught climbing the kitchen counter, like _oh crap, I used the B-word._

Meanwhile, Peter’s thinking about the _L-word,_ feels it bubbling up, pressing warm in his chest, hovering in the back of his throat. He wants to say it so bad, but jeez, they’ve been together all of three days and he’s already moved in and they’re just doing this all backwards.

So instead he says, “Hey Clint, do you wanna go out with me?”

And Clint’s whole face just lights up, and Peter is so, so fucked.

  
  


No, just a second, that’s not right. Here’s how it goes down.

  
  


Clint and Peter are having a mutual meltdown on the fire escape.

“I’m sorry!” Clint blurts, flustered. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to…”

But Peter’s talking over him, saying, “I don’t want to cheat on you!”

And now Clint’s freak-out is having a freak-out. “Are you cheating on me?”

“No!”

“Do you want to??”

“I just said I didn’t!”

Clint’s almost hyperventilating. “Then why did you bring it up?!”

 _“Because your internationally-wanted, maybe-fuckbuddy is downstairs in our apartment trying to fuck me.”_

The blinds next to them drop with an offended rustle and they both jump. “Sorry!” they whisper in tandem.

“I didn’t mean to spring him on you,” mutters Clint.

“He just kinda showed up,” agrees Peter in a whisper. Their heads get closer and closer the quieter they talk. “And now he’s on our couch with his perfect hair and his ridiculous arms and he called me ‘sweetheart’ and I’m having feelings that I don’t think someone with a boyfriend is supposed to be having.”

“Oh.” says Clint, taken aback. “So you want to — ?”

“Of course I want to!”

“So what’s the problem?” They stare at each other, wide-eyed.

“Oh.” says Peter, and wow, okay, he really loves this fuckin’ guy. “So we should — ?”

“Yeah.” Clint rubs the back of his neck, a blush blooming across the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, let’s uh…”

They head back inside. The Winter Soldier still graces Clint’s couch. He’s feeding Lucky a piece of bacon, and when the fuck did he acquire bacon? His head cocks at the scrape of their shoes across the windowsill.

“You guys know I have super hearing, right?”

  
  


Okay, wait, we’re still a little ahead of ourselves. _This_ is how it happens.

  
  


Peter wakes before dawn in the dusty lavender haze of Clint’s bed, tangled up in a knot of aubergine duvet and mauve sheets and Clint’s heavy, warm limbs. Clint’s face is pressed into the nape of Peter’s neck, and he’s drooling a little, and as Peter goes to extricate himself Clint tightens around him, mumbles _, “pretty,”_ in his sleep, and Peter whispers, _“love you,”_ tucking his secret safely away in this liminal moment-between-moments.

Clint sleeps late and Peter wakes early, especially now that he’s hitting a little more balance between his home life and the hero gig. He enjoys the solitude of predawn, the quiet as he slips out of bed to camp out in front of his laptop and drink cup after cup of coffee and just get shit done. His days are so much smoother now. He used to roll out of bed five minutes before he needed to be out the door. Running on two hours of sleep, he’d struggle to stay awake on the train, ignoring the pitying glances at his black eyes and split lips.

He never imagined he could have Spider-Man, and also have this.

When he finally hears Clint stirring, he’ll waft back up to the loft with a fresh mug. Clint’s bedhead will make him laugh, and he’ll drown half-hearted grumbling about morning breath in coffee flavored kisses and, later, Clint-flavored kisses (Clint grumbles about these noticeably less).

Peter wakes up, and detangles himself, and the exact shape of his morning is laid out before him, and life is good.

He heads for the railing to drape over the wrought iron and stretch out muscles that are pleasantly sore from training and from… other things..

He looks down.

The Winter Soldier is sitting on his couch.

Peter hits the ceiling.

  
  


“Okay,” says Clint. “I can see how this looks bad.”

You think?

The Winter Soldier is sitting on Peter’s couch, arms stretched wide across the back. He takes up so much _space,_ like he knows every crack and crevice of the apartment in a way that’s going to take Peter _years_ to learn. Lucky, the traitor, sits pretty at his feet, mouth dropped in a happy pant. Worst guard dog ever.

The Winter Soldier is _stacked._

The Winter Soldier is _covered in knives._

The Winter Soldier has a Brooklyn drawl that should be _illegal._

The Winter Soldier is currently leaning over to pick up Peter's favorite fluff-on-a-stick. Peter’s focus snaps in tight, and he’s deeply, _deeply_ embarrassed to realize that his mouth has dropped open and he’s salivating a little, but he can’t make himself stop.

“Didn’t know you had a cat,” the Winter Soldier says, idling fanning it back and forth.

_Don’t say it’s a sex thing, don’t say it’s a sex things, don’t say it’s a —_

“It’s a sex thing!” blurts Clint, then slaps a hand over his mouth.

Fuck, Peter loves him so _fucking_ much.

The Winter Soldier raises one surprisingly well-maintained eyebrow. “I was gonna stop by while I was in town and see if we could make some time, but looks like your dance card’s a little… full.” His gaze flicks up and down Peter's body, a quick flash. The tip of his tongue dips out to wet his lips. “Damn shame.”

“Babe?” squeaks Peter. “Can we have a word outside?” 

  
  


Alright, cool, we're basically caught up to the part where — 

  
  


— Peter crawls back in through the window of their sweet little loft apartment, and the Winter Soldier (with his inexplicable bacon) says, “You guys know I have super hearing, right?”

Peter's face flushes hot, but then their visitor flashes him an absolute panty-dropper of a smile. He makes a desperate little sound and hears it echoed and _oh._ He's never heard _that_ sound come out of Clint before. 

Anyway.

Clint manages to smooth things over. He wants it, Peter wants it, and the Winter Solider wants… 

It turns out what the Winter Soldier wants right now is Clint and Peter. And when the Winter Soldier wants something, he gets it. Peter gets wanting Clint, because Clint’s _amazing._ But he doesn’t quite get what the super soldier sees in some kid who’s practically tripping over his own dick, the complete and utter opposite of ‘suave.’ 

With an indulgent tilt of his head and a slightly pained smile, the Winter Soldier asks Peter to call him _Bucky._ Apparently _Mr. Winter Soldier, sir_ is weirding him out. 

Peter gulps, and makes an unsure gesture. 

The Winter Soldier _tells_ Peter to call him Bucky. Okay, yeah, yeah, okay. Except now Peter's mouth has gone too dry to call him anything at all.

With a roll of his murder-eyes, he herds them onto the couch and deposits Clint in the middle, Peter pulled in close. He kisses Peter over Clint's shoulder while Clint makes anxious, desperate noises, and _wow,_ he’s a good kisser (and Peter would know). "Ain't he just the prettiest when he's gagging to be fucked?" he asks, and Peter's brain freezes. 

His gasp of "Wait, he _bottoms?"_ is overlapped by Clint's breathy protest of "Peter doesn't top," and then an echoing, _"What?"_

The Winter Soldier sits back, smirking. "Wow, you two really are made for each other, huh?" 

  
  


Things kind of escalate. Just a little.

  
  


The Winter Soldier is two fingers deep in Peter, swapping between the metal fingers and the flesh ones. Ruthless thrust in, slow drag out, rinse, repeat. Just the idea of where those hands have been is almost enough to push Peter to the edge, and that’s before we even talk about how good it feels (and _fuck_ does it feel _good)._

Peter opens his mouth to say something, deeply, profoundly sexy. 

The Winter Soldier twists his fingers in a way that’s outright criminal.

“Did you kill JFK?”

 _Fuck,_ Parker you can’t just _ask_ someone if they killed JFK. 

Thankfully, the Winter Soldier doesn’t seem to mind, just flashes him that baby-cannon of a grin. “Are you asking if my aim's good enough to make a man's head explode?” and then he crooks his fingers just right and — 

Yes. Yes, his aim _is_ that good.

  
  


“You got some kinda serum?” It’s a little bit later. The Winter Soldier is still prying Peter open like a tin can. 

They’ve fallen half off their perch on the sofa, and the hardwood is wearing a deep bruise into Peter’s knee as he contorts, happily choking himself half to death on Clint’s dick. He doesn’t process that there had been a question, or that it had been directed at him, or that ‘words’ are a thing that have ‘meaning.’

Clint pulls him off by the hair and gives his face a little smack. “Answer ‘im, kitten.”

“S-some kind,” gasps Peter.

“The kind that'll let you go all night?” Peter's mouth goes dry, and his head thunks down on Clint’s thigh. The Winter Soldier sizes them up. “How many he got in him, do you think?”

Clint pets Peter’s head, then tightens the fingers in his hair, guiding his mouth to slide wetly up and down the side of his cock. “Two, maybe three.” 

Peter shivers under the weight of steady, appraising eyes. 

“Naw, I bet you got more than that, sweetheart. Let's find out.”

  
  


The Winter Soldier isn’t mean just to Peter.

Peter’s good with his mouth, _wicked_ good, has been since… Well, let’s just say if you’re old enough to fight crime and get shot up by cops, you’re old enough to suck a little dick, and leave it at that.

He’s good with his mouth, and it’s only been a few weeks but he already knows just how to play Clint’s body. So when the Winter Soldier smacks him none-too-gently on the thigh (with the metal hand… _ow)_ and says, “Don’t let him come,” Peter knows just when to ease up, knows exactly how much to twist his tongue, knows how to tease Clint until he’s swearing a blue streak.

Peter likes that, likes it a whole lot.

He’s learning all of Clint’s weak spots and Clint is so screwed once this is all over, but somehow Peter doesn’t think he’ll be too broken up over it.

The Winter Soldier laughs at Clint's whining. “Oh, no. You don't get to come till I'm done with your boy, here, you ain't enhanced.”

  
  


He’s lying. Once they finally let Clint come, Bucky will fuck Peter in his boyfriend's bed, Clint passed the hell out beside them, Peter biting his own forearm to muffle his screams.

But they’re sure as hell gonna make Clint work for it, first. 

  
  


Turns out Clint _does_ love getting fucked. Like, a _lot._

And, as much as Peter is an unabashed pillow princess, he’s pretty damn good at being the one doing the fucking, too. And turns out he loves fucking Clint.

Like, a _lot._

He loves how stupid Clint gets as soon as you get a dick in him, loves the full body shudder when that dick slowly pulls out and, just as slowly, pushes back in. 

(Ugh, he’s screwed, he just loves Clint, okay?)

This is like every porno fantasy that he ever swore he wouldn’t like in real life, but he loves having the Winter Soldier at his back, front pressed to him, chin hooked over his shoulder, telling him _exactly_ how to touch his own damn boyfriend. Peter likes it when the Winter Soldier tells them both that they’re being so good for him. Likes it when he touches him all over, because, with his cock buried hot and tight in his boyfriend and hands stroking his skin until his nerves thrum, the sensual overload is just… wow, and a _lot,_ and Peter can barely keep his hips moving to fuck Clint like he deserves.

So, of course, the Winter Soldier helps. 

Slips on a condom, slicks up, lines himself up. When Peter sinks balls-deep into Clint, he says, “Push back for me, darlin’,” and, “Take it. That’s right, take what you want.”

Peter rocks back until he’s full to bursting, and then the Winter Soldier snaps his hips and _takes._

“Neither of you get to go off before me, you hear?” he says, his smirk audible, and Peter almost goes off. Not on purpose, mind, though he’s more than a little curious about what would happen if he did. “And you,” the Winter Soldier caresses Clint’s face, “you don’t get to go at all. Not yet.”

Okay, so, if he’s trying to _stop_ Peter from blowing his load, he’s doing a _spectacularly_ bad job of it.

  
  


Oh, hey, we’re almost back where we started.

  
  


They decide that bed, _bed_ is a good idea, and they almost make it, too. But then they stop halfway up the stairs to make out, and then they discover that if Clint sits on the stairs and holds Peter half in his lap, arms wrapped tight around his chest, and if they splay Peter's legs over the Winter Soldier's disgustingly large shoulders, well — it's like having a sex sling without having to drill holes in the ceiling. 

Not that Peter's done a lot of that kind of thing in the back rooms of leather bars ( _What?_ He _hasn't,_ and okay, maybe that's just because he just turned 21 a few months ago and can only just now go to said bars, and shut _up)._ But the one time he managed to sweet talk his way into a sling (and then sweet talk someone else into _him)_ he was caught off guard by how vulnerable it was; so much more intimate than just getting naked and spreading his legs. 

And now it's even worse, because he's skin to skin with his future husband _,_ and the Winter Soldier is tucking his metal thumb… Oh, yes, right there… And, oh _no,_ Clint’s grip is slowly but surely loosening, letting gravity do what gravity does best. 

Clint's hand tightens one hand around Peter’s throat, the other firm on Peter’s diaphragm, reminding him to breathe (when he’s allowed, anyway), and Peter relaxes all at once and then the world goes white-hot as his body slides opens around the Winter Soldier’s hand. 

He’s going to come. He’s going to die. He's pretty sure the sensation he’s currently experiencing is his prostate being rammed against his pubic bone. It hurts and he’s proud and he’s terrified and mostly he's just _full, full,_ **_full._ **

The human ass is just _not_ meant to contain this much vibranium.

Peter can’t move, can’t breathe. He hangs between them as Clint kisses at his neck and pets his chest, telling him how good he is, and the Winter Soldier circles a warm thumb on his ankle. Sliced open, raw, broken into pieces, Peter can only wait his turn to be put back together.

That’s probably why, when he opens his mouth to make a strained, breathless quip about how this is the most expensive thing that’s ever been in his ass, what falls out instead is an embarrassingly teary,

“I love you.”

Clint freezes.

Peter sucks in a breath, “Fuck,” and he wants to hide his face, wants to burrow deep, but he’s trapped, pinned out on display, and— 

“Hey, eyes here,” says the Winter Soldier, running a soothing hand up Peter’s flank and across his belly. He covers Clint’s hand on Peter’s chest and pushes until Peter can’t help but let out a long breath, gasping a fresh breath in. “You’re doing great. Sweetheart, you did so good.”

Peter takes another deep breath, trying (and failing) to blink away the tears. He gingerly moves his arm up (it hurts, everything _hurts),_ and tangles his fingers with Clint’s and Bucky’s all at once.

Bucky eyes snap past Peter’s shoulder and _oh, okay, those are the kind of eyes that are the last thing someone sees,_ and he’s desperately glad that they’re honed in on Clint instead of him.

“Barton, stop being a dumb shit and tell your boy how you feel.”

“Wha — ?” Clint squeezes at their triple-joined hands like he’s trying to resuscitate them, nuzzling into Peter. The movement jostles him, and he whimpers. “Shit! Sorry, I didn't mean to — I’m just not — I’m not good at this. I’m so afraid I’m gonna fuck everything up, but I’m so crazy about you and I want to keep you _forever_ and I just… You know that I — I’m sorry, I just c-can’t — ”

“It’s okay,” Peter gasps, and shit, now he’s _really_ crying, and that is not a sexy thing. (Except maybe it is? He hopes he’s sexy crying, and not ugly crying.) “It’s okay, I know, I’m crazy about you, too, and it’s so fast but I love you so much and I’m so glad you’re — _omigod, this is a lot —_ I’m so glad you’re here with me right now.”

“You’re still the best cat I ever found in the garbage,” Clint mumbles against Peter’s neck.

Peter’s pretty sure he hears Bucky whisper, “What the _fuck,”_ but he doesn’t care. This is perfect. This is exactly how it should be.

  
  


When the unyielding hand inside Peter shifts, he cares about Bucky’s opinions just a little bit more. “Think it’s time for number three, yeah?” Bucky says, and sinks his mouth onto Peter’s entire cock in one fluid movement.

Gag reflexes are for people who didn’t _(probably)_ assassinate JFK. 

  
  


Anyway, some other stuff happens, but you probably don’t care too much about all the dirty details, so let's skip ahead.

  
  


Clint is so, _so_ gorgeous when he's begging to come, and even prettier when he's turned down. And he’s the absolute prettiest when Peter holds him down by the wrists and Bucky pushes his knees to his chest and presses him open and makes him scream. 

Peter is _definitely_ going to use this knowledge for evil.

He's learning _so_ many new things today.

He learns just how hard he comes when Bucky — when _the Winter Soldier,_ his mind supplies, with that constant hint of awe — holds him down, hand heavy between his shoulder blades, and fucks into him until his teeth rattle, hissing, "Better keep quiet. Don’t wanna wake your little boyfriend up. What would he think if he saw you spreading your legs for me like this?" 

The fact that the Winter Soldier throws in a ‘you little _slut’_ (or two… or five) doesn't hurt matters one single bit. 

Peter learns that he _can_ come five times in one afternoon. And that the last two will definitely make him cry. 

  
  


But, most importantly, Peter learns after all that — 

After getting dicked down six ways from Sunday by his boyfriend's sex-friend (who he guesses is his sex-friend now, too?). After waking up to the biggest relationship surprise of his fucking _life_ (and he'd consider asking for a 'no surprises' rule, but let's be honest, if even a quarter of them turn out this good, he might actually _die_ of good sex) — 

After all that, it's still sweetly unbelievable to wake up in the dusty lavender haze of Clint’s bed, hopelessly tangled in plum duvet and boyfriend limbs and sprawling super-soldier. It's that drowsy, magic time when day isn’t sure if it’s bleeding into night, or if it's the other way around. Peter stirs.

Clint murmurs, _“can I?”_ and Peter breathes, _“please._ ” He shivers from tip to toe as Clint bundles him even closer and pushes into him from behind. 

Bucky's hand (the metal one, god, yes, _please)_ reaches over Clint and settles on Peter's neck, weighing him down until he's sinking into the mattress. 

All he can do is lie there and take it. 

Clint comes like a whisper, and Peter comes like a shout, and Bucky probably comes like some unfairly attractive and poetic sound that Peter doesn't hear because he's already drifting off, Clint's dick still inside him. Cockwarming is almost _definitely_ something that’s better in porn than it is in real life, but he figures that's a problem for future-Peter to deal with. 

He must sleep a little because, between one blink and the next, they’ve shifted positions. Clint lies half on top of him, warm and heavy. Bucky’s fingers are tangled in his, and he flexes around enough vibranium to pay his student loans. 

A whisper, “You awake, kitten?” and no, no, Peter is not awake. Peter’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, and the shape of the future is bright and easy in his mind, and he's perfectly happy to stand at this threshold that might not be asleep, but is most certainly _not_ awake. Clint’s hand slides up to wrap around his throat, light, almost tentative. He buries his face in the back of Peter's neck. Murmurs, “Love you,” into Peter’s hair like he’s trying it on for size, like he’s weighing the taste of it on his tongue.

 _Love you, too,_ Peter wants to say, but he’s already tumbling back into sleep.

That’s okay. He’ll say it when they wake up.

Fin.


End file.
